Theatre in Review: The Dance of Death (Red Bull Theater/Lucille Lortel Theater)

	Daniel Davis and Laila Robins. Photo Carol Rosegg

If, passing by the Lucille Lortel, you detect the scent of brimstone and sulfur, don't be surprised; it is merely Daniel Davis and Laila Robins taking part in the Satanic rituals of marriage, as depicted in The Dance of Death. Whatever dark purpose August Strindberg was up to in imagining a couple locked in mortal psychological combat, The Dance of Death now plays as black comedy, especially in Mike Poulton's adaptation. Watching it, one imagines the young Edward Albee attending closely to the way Strindberg's characters use each razor-edged line of dialogue to draw fresh blood -- and taking notes.

"God! How it loves the sound of its own voice!" wails Alice, the female half of this misalliance, but really, both she and her spouse/adversary are in love with the art of denunciation. When Edgar brings up their impending silver anniversary, Alice snaps, "Wouldn't the decent thing be to draw a veil over the whole sorry business?" "Well it's not all been suffering," admonishes Edgar, adding, "Mostly, I admit." Discovering that Edgar is having trouble with his eyes, Alice triumphantly announces, "You're falling apart. Ha!" When the ailing Edgar lies down, she tries to cover his head with a blanket, as if he were already a corpse. "Our evil is catching. Everybody who comes too close is infected," warns Edgar, but by then it's too late; we're already under the influence of this wicked pair and their poisoned words.

A late work, written when Strindberg was in the grip of Swedenborgian thought and obsessed with the occult, The Dance of Death is probably meant to carry more symbolic weight than it does here. For example, the setting called for in the script, a round house in a tower, has fairy-tale overtones; here it has been replaced by the shabby, underfurnished, thoroughly naturalistic drawing room rendered so artfully by the set designer, Beowulf Boritt. (Edgar and Alice are still imprisoned on an island, where Edgar's military garrison is stationed; the sinister click of the telegraph provides their only contact with the outside word.) There isn't a scintilla of subtext as Davis and Robins attack their roles, and each other, with declamatory vigor. As Edgar, Davis specializes in the art of passive aggression; he takes delight in informing Alice that, from now on, he will respond to each of her remarks with a yawn; this gesture might mean she is absolutely right or it might mean he deeply wishes she would shut her mouth - it's for Alice to guess. As the same time, it's remarkable how much venom Davis can invest in a single line, calling up the terrors of the earth when Edgar is denied his beloved whiskey. ("I despise milk!") Meanwhile, Robins stalks the stage, gaining a few inches with each new fury, then falling onto the couch like a 19th-century tragedy queen, recounting each unpaid bill, lost servant, and insult to her dignity. This is a remarkable joint display of technique - presented with a vengeance.

Under Joseph Hardy's relentless direction, you may find yourself getting dizzy from this psychological Punch and Judy show. For arguably too long, the combat continues at such at a savage level that you wonder how they can keep it up, and then you start not to care. Rescue of a sort arrives with Gustav, Alice's cousin and possibly her former lover; himself the survivor of a terrible marriage and eager for a quiet life, he wastes no time in taking on the role of pawn. At first, Derek Smith seems to be underplaying to a fault, responding to each new verbal outrage with blandly dismissive remarks. In truth, he's a nervous breakdown waiting to happen; check out the twitching of his facial muscles, the faint tremble in his voice when Alice turns on him in full seduction mode; within seconds they are engaged in fierce erotic grappling. "You've made an animal of me," he cries, all too aware that his soul is at stake.

As one plot gives way to another and the deceptions mount, it becomes increasingly clear that hatred is the glue that binds Alice and Edgar together - possibly more effectively than love could ever do. "A soldier's nobody without an enemy to fight," says Edgar. "Revenge is my food and drink," adds Alice. Yet, when the fun and games turn really lethal, and it looks like Alice may actually destroy Edgar's career, the panic in Robins' eyes is disturbingly authentic; all that really matters is for them both to fight another day. Never has the phrase "they deserve each other" seemed more apt.

The productions at Red Bull are looking better all the time and The Dance of Death is no exception. In addition to Boritt's set, Clifton Taylor's merciless lighting, Alejo Vietti's smartly tailored costumes, and Brandon Wolcott's sound design, which includes gusts of wind that seem to come from hell itself, all make solid contributions. It's telling that, when asked when and why her marriage went haywire, Alice has nothing to say. All she knows is she has been locked in battle as far back as she can recall. Watching her humiliate Gustav, it becomes clear that sadomasochism is the lingua franca of these characters. Interestingly, Hardy's production takes Strindberg at face value, never letting the laughter fully obscure the unchecked rage underneath. "That's love," says Edgar. "Is life a thing to be revered or a monstrous practical joke? How can I judge? Farce? Nightmare?" Good questions, still.-- David Barbour