Newcity Stage

Theater, Dance, Comedy and Performance in Chicago

“The Dance of Death” at Steppenwolf Is an Expressionist Painting Conor McPherson's adaptation of August Strindberg's play conveys something true about human relationships—that love and hate are both forms of intimacy, and often intertwined.

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by Mary Wisniewski
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An older man in a blue uniform sits on a couch, talking to a woman in a red dress with a patterned apron. They appear to be in a dramatic scene on stage, with somber expressions and a dimly lit, rustic background.

Steppenwolf’s “The Dance of Death,” with Jeff Perry and Kathryn Erbe/Photo: Michael Brosilow

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There’s no hell like an unhappy marriage. Your worst, most irritating enemy is in your house, day after day, year after year, knowing the best ways to torment you.

So why would you stay, if divorce is an option? Maybe it’s inertia, or the expense of separation. But there also may be a perverse, addictive thrill in being forever at war. For some people, there’s nothing like regular infusions of hatred to feel alive.

In August Strindberg’s “The Dance of Death,” now playing at Steppenwolf Theatre, Alice and the Captain have this kind of terrible union. Alice is a pretentious former actress and the Captain is a boozy, unpopular army officer. Living in a former prison set on an island military base, they spite each other in every way possible. When Alice offers to play the piano, the Captain requests she play something in a major key. So she perversely plays a minor.

When the Captain suggests they celebrate their silver anniversary, Alice retorts, “I thought we might show more decorum by keeping our long miserable mistake to ourselves.”

“Oh, come, Alice!” he replies. “We’ve had fun. Now and then. And soon it will all be over. We’ll be dead, and all that’s left is your rotten carcass.”

The couple’s antipathetic rhythms are interrupted by a visitor, Kurt, who becomes a rival for Alice’s affection and is drawn into their madness.

A woman in a long, floral dress sits on a chaise lounge, while a bearded man in a gray suit stands behind her. The scene takes place in a dimly lit, vintage room with old-fashioned decor and a portrait on the wall.

Steppenwolf’s “The Dance of Death,” with Kathryn Erbe and Cliff Chamberlain/Photo: Michael Brosilow

All of this sounds rather grim, yet it’s a surprisingly funny show. Steppenwolf uses a sharp modern adaptation of the 126-year-old Swedish play by Irish playwright Conor McPherson. Under the direction of ensemble member Yasen Peyankov, it may remind you both of Edward Albee’s “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” and “The Bickersons.” The insults lilt and bounce instead of landing with heavy dramatic thuds, though the play darkens in the second act.

The show stars Steppenwolf co-founder Jeff Perry as the Captain, ensemble members Kathryn Erbe as Alice and Cliff Chamberlain as Kurt. Perry’s Captain is wildly eccentric, doing a dance with his saber to Alice playing “Entry March of the Boyars” on the piano. Whatever he’s doing, his movement is jerky, abrupt and comical, like a marionette. His bushy mustache looks ready to leave his face and star in its own show.

At first, Erbe’s Alice seemed too restrained to be on the same stage with Perry, but they balance each other out. In scenes without him, she’s deranged, too. Perry’s behavior may seem too much, but they fit the circumstances. These are crazy people living in a nightmare, where “corpses are screaming in the walls”—why not dance with a saber or throw things into the ocean? Perry’s antics match the overall tone. Chamberlain is also effective as the outsider Kurt, who is at first puzzled by the couple’s antics, and then increasingly enraged.

Towering over the action is Collette Pollard’s stark, forbidding set—a tall, round grey tower with barred windows. The couple’s living area is a mix of luxury and wreckage—a leather chaise lounge contrasting with a wooden floor that breaks apart at the front edges and exposes the rough rock beneath.

Strindberg is known for both his naturalist and expressionist style, and “The Dance of Death” is not a subtle play. Like an expressionist painting, it exaggerates and distorts for effect. It also tells something true about human relationships—that love and hate are both forms of intimacy, and often intertwined.

Steppenwolf’s “The Death of Dance” runs through March 22 at Steppenwolf’s Downstairs Theater, 1650 North Halsted. Tickets start at $20, available at steppenwolf.org.