Two terms ago, as director, Andrei Malaev-Babel turned an Henri Bergson drama, in the forefront of its time for establishing realism in France, into a 19th century melodrama with asides and exaggerated acting styles. Now he has taken a drama typifying August Strindberg's extension of realism into naturalism and, except for sexual matter dictated by the text, confused much of Miss Julie with its writer's later departures from representational drama. Too much reliance is placed on its time, a midsummer eve, associated in Sweden with romantic myths and mystery (as fans of Ingmar Bergman and Stephen Sondheim are aware). According to the program, in midsummer relationships are tested and "under the influence of alcohol, the truth will come out." But does Sarash Gavitt distinguish between that effect on Miss Julie and a drinker's gushing out of emotions leading to admissions?
Strangely, an important Strindberg direction is ignored: that the kitchen setting have a large, glass-fronted double door open to a courtyard and the only way to the rest of the house. Thus, we do not see what he called "the magic of dusk" where excited dancing occurs in an outside full of flowers, whose "aphrodisiac influence" wafts indoors. Miss Julie enters down a high stairway, obviously meant to be symbolic of her status, though why her dancing had occurred near that level is a puzzle, since we learn she'd danced with her servants in their milieu. Also, gypsy-like peasants appear later from what seems to be a passageway next to the bedroom of cook Christine. Reinforcing confusion, the words they sing as a chorus cannot be understood though, happily, their mime is.
The story: During a short absence by her father, the Count, and flushed by midsummer festivity dancing, Miss Julie plunges toward tragedy through a seduction of his valet Jean that proves to be mutual. Their interactions reveal the effect on Miss Julie of her mother's sexual transgressions, her being raised by her father as both hyper-masculine and equally repressed woman, and recently, her being rejected by a fiance who rebuffed her sadistic commands.
From his first liveried appearance, Peter Mendez commands the stage as dark, ambitious valet Jean. An unsentimental, seasoned seducer and liar, he makes thoroughly believable a turn from being smooth, daringly confident, and unafraid to be an abuser of Miss Julie to one who knows his place is to cower before the Count. Nissa Perrott complements him as Christine, the cook desiring to be known as Jean's fiance. Her disdain for Miss Julie comes through in every reference to her as well as when Christine directly gives her a strong dose of self-serving religious moralizing.
Despite apparent ease with the difficult twists in the anti-heroine's emotions and actions, Sarah Gavitt always seems to be playing rather than being Miss Julie. Her physical stature isn't up to conveying Julie's masculine qualities. Why was she directed to so often speak directly to the audience? Probably only Julie's long monologue revealing her background warrants such treatment. Why she spends so much time without her dress -- both after the tryst with Jean and before she goes off to get travel gear and money -- is another mystery. All in all, she seems more kooky than tragic.
In a truly naturalistic production, the physically and vocally more imposing Nissa Perrott would seem a better Julie, while Sarah Gavitt could fit in just as well as Christine. Such a difficult play needs straight-shot interpretation, not vacillating between real and poetic, romantic and sordid.
