Strindberg's 'Link': A Bitter Bond

The Link is a bitter, anguished inspection of what Strindberg believed to be the inevitable sordidness of a basic human institution--marriage. Written when the playwright was experiencing perhaps the climax of the unhappiness and torment that plagued his life, the script at times writhes in agonized protest of both human and natural restrictions and institutions.

Simply structured around a single incident--the divorce hearing of the Baroness and the incidental battle for custody of the child--the play uncovers one rotten layer after another in the married life of the people, as the wife and husband chase each other in an increasingly vicious circle of accusations.

But this short tragedy is not an unqualified statement of the intense misogyny of Strindberg's youth: the duality of his evaluation of women, which led him alternatively from violent, Nietszchean disgust of females to a submissive craving for maternal warmth and comfort, receives a bit of the attention it will enjoy more fully in later plays. The Strindberg hatred for the feminist opportunist pervades The Link, but an appreciation of the woman as mother is not totally absent.

Last weekend's presentation of this play at the Experimental Theatre, therefore, was in stark contrast to a more amiable view of the battle of the sexes being portrayed on the Main Stage. Shaw could smile resignedly at the tenacity with which woman fulfilled her duty to the Life Force and captured a husband. Strindberg brooded over the plague of women besetting man, and saw tragic disaster in the marriage woman sought. In both plays though, there is a great deal of talk.

While emotionally powerful, The Link has some other difficulties. It is at times too much a tortured cry from a tortured soul, and at the other points it drifts aimlessly in indecision, not sure of its judgment or conclusion. Further, it is rather long for a one act play, and has many of the usual problems of a courtroom setting.

Director Robert Lanchester did not succeed in mastering all his adversities. In fact, he seems to have ignored quite a few of them--the minor characters, for instance--hoping to produce a satisfactory drama solely by concentrating on the two major figures in the play.

The trouble is that many of the supporting roles are extremely important; their weakness in the Experimental's production stifled the power of Strindberg's script and often led to tedium. Particularly at fault was Skip Ascheim, whose colorless voice and wooden actions turned the judge into a most uninteresting person. His protestations of the difficulty of judicial decision were quite unconvincing.

Phil Campagne and John Stephenson, as the sheriff and constable respectively, opened the show on such a flat note that for a moment it seemed any decent high school cast would be a distinct improvement. Douglas Connor, the attorney who twists the law irregardless of justice, compounded the mediocrity.

Chris Reaske, as a farmer, and Thom Babe, the pastor, shone like bright alpha stars in comparison, however, and made it possible for the leads to work. Reaske's storming over the injustice he suffered in a slander case was controlled but believable; unfortunately the incident had little to do with the main plot of the play.

Clayton Koelb, the Baron, and Laura Esterman, his wife, had deceptively complex roles, and neither succeeded in exploring thoroughly the intricacies of his part.

Koelb too often substituted shouting for intensity, and his arms dangled uselessly at his side throughout most of the play. His motion, like that of practically everyone else, was occasionally very awkward and poorly blocked.

But Koelb did hint at the embivalence with which Stringberg viewed the Baron's position. There was no question in the author's mind that the Baron had been wronged; his wife was a vile creature who represented all that Strindberg feared in women. At the same time, the Baron's association with his wife had despoiled him as well, leading him into unforgivable transgressions. Koelb was both remorseful and wronged, though perhaps a shade more guilty and compassionate towards his wife than Strindberg would have wished.

Miss Esterman was not nearly despicable enough. Where Strindberg sketched a viper, Miss Esterman gave us just a very protective lioness. She defended the Baroness by emphasizing maternal feelings disproportionately, softening the destructive feminism which Strindberg had bitterly written in the part.

She kept her stage presence well, but too often she reacted as if there was no one else on the stage; at times it seemed she was unaware of Koelb's existence, being so intent on her own expression and actions.

The technical work was satisfactory enough for an Experimental Theatre presentation. Fred Prahl's original organ music, which introduced the play, was rough but properly jarring. Unfortunately the actors did not always maintain the tension of his dissonances