By Ciara LaVelle
By Jose D. Duran
By Kat Bein
By Juan Barquin
By Ciara LaVelle
By George Martinez
By Kat Bein
By Ciara LaVelle
Written by prolific English author Priestley in 1946, right after the end of World War II, and widely produced ever since, particularly in the United Kingdom, the classic detective yarn is really a cautionary tale about social responsibility. Set in 1912, two years before World War I rocked the complacency of the West, the tightly plotted drama opens in an industrial city in northern England. The upper-class Birling family has gathered together to toast the engagement of their daughter Sheila to Gerald Croft. "You are getting married at a very good time," insists Sheila's father Arthur, the prosperous owner of a local factory. As he tips his glass toward the couple, he predicts years of impending progress and prosperity for them and for the world at large. Suddenly A and disruptively A an inspector appears at the Birlings' door to ask questions about the suicide of an obscure young working woman. As Inspector Goole goads the celebrants, including imperious matriarch Sybil and drunken brother Eric, into admitting their connections to the dead woman, Eva Smith, the snug fabric binding the Birlings together unravels.
Here's where the proceedings go clunk: Priestley quickly wraps up the mystery of who is responsible for driving Smith to her death, deep-sixing the suspense in favor of sermonizing. Accordingly, Goole becomes a mouthpiece who warns against the consequences of selfishness, appealing to people to care for one another before it's too late. And faster than you can say Das Kapital, the Birling clan has been transformed into a transparent metaphor for the greedy upper class that exploits the rest of us through its avarice.
If a modern version of this community theater favorite had been brought to London's West End or to Broadway set in a conventional English drawing room and acted in stoic aristocratic style, as it is most often staged, such an obvious parable about the evils of capitalism would make today's cynical audiences groan. Director Daldry and designer MacNeil have more magical notions in mind, however. Along with lighting designer Rick Fisher and composer Stephen Warbeck, these theater wizards reinvent the show through an innovative use of design and sound, propelling these elements out of their traditional supporting roles and into the foreground. In this newly realized Inspector, the set, the lighting, and the music are not only as integral to the play's theme as the script is, they also add previously unknown dimensions to that theme.
A World War II air-raid siren signals the beginning of this An Inspector Calls, followed by an all-clear blast. A flashlight beam wavers over the audience and the proscenium as a boy makes his way onto the stage. The house lights go down and the curtain rises, not on the interior of an English manor but on a rain-soaked, shadow-laced, bombed-out cobblestone street where only two buildings still stand. One of them, tottering on what appear to be stilts protruding from the debris, is a life-size Edwardian dollhouse. Strains of the soundtrack from the Alfred Hitchcock film Vertigo imbue the scene with a sense of foreboding as a man in a trench coat stands under a streetlight at the side of the stage, staring at the house. Through the gaily lighted windows come the voices of the Birling family; they've gathered around the dinner table, oblivious to the ominous devastation at their threshold. The man in the trench coat is Inspector Goole; when Goole interrupts the party to begin his inquiry, the precarious house literally opens up and its inhabitants tumble out of their gilded cage to the mean streets below.
Daldry anticipates the reactions of jaded contemporary audiences by subverting the predictable aspects of the production. He enhances the script's suspense by trimming the original three acts to one (it runs for two hours). He toys with our usual notions of time by setting the drama in two historical periods simultaneously. (When the pre-WWI-era house opens up, the Birlings emerge onto a ravaged post-World War II street, as if disembarking from a time capsule.) And he breathes new life into Priestley's stale humanistic plea through the use of bold theatrical techniques. The image of the Birling manse splitting open and, later, sealing up again sends a visual message about the self-absorption of the wealthy class that speaks volumes without words. Even the performances Daldry elicits from his stellar ensemble of actors are infused with a stylized urgency that illustrates just how much these privileged characters have to lose when their comfortable lives are upended -- and what they will do to maintain that privilege.