STRINDBERG UNDER SIEGE

A misfire in almost every way possible, this visually aggressive
production overwhelms the play’s naturalistic power.

“Uh oh,” was my first thought when the wall of lights behind the set for Miss Julie started flashing during the obligatory pre-show announcement to turn off phones. That sense of impending doom only grew when the flashing turned to strobing and a cacophony of electronica blasted out of the speakers as Kristine, the cook in the Count’s household, measured out ingredients and proceeded to make a batch of bread dough—in real time.

The point of this opening scene? Your guess is as good as mine.

August Strindberg’s deployment of naturalism reached its apogee in Miss Julie, his most famous play, and to most—this reviewer included—not just his masterpiece, but one of the masterpieces of dramatic theatre. Set in a single location—the kitchen of the manor house—Miss Julie begins on Midsummer’s Eve and runs through to the morning after. Through the night, Miss Julie, the headstrong daughter of the house, does battle with one of the servants, Jean, who is the valet to her father.

“Does battle” is the best way to describe the exchange of words (and more) between Miss Julie and Jean. Recently jilted by her fiancé, and roiling with anger at her upbringing, her sex, and the rules imposed upon her by her social class, Miss Julie is spoiling for a fight. And she gets it from Jean, the intelligent, virile, and vain servant who has ambitious plans to break into the very strata of society that Miss Julie loathes. They argue, flirt, banter, invade each other’s spaces—both physically and emotionally—and finally cross a line that cannot be uncrossed, stranding them in a purgatorial space between their respective classes. It is a complicated, darkly funny, and exhilarating script with three beautifully fleshed-out parts that actors love to play. Not for nothing has it never gone out of fashion since it was first performed in 1906. You could sit the actors at a bare table with a single bulb hanging over them and it would still work.

So what went wrong here?

In one word: everything.

Let us start with the technicals: John Culbert’s set at The Court Theatre is a small circular kitchen, with dried herbs and bulbs hanging about twenty feet above the space. A scrim surrounds the entire construct, with the actors entering through the back. It’s a deliberately claustrophobic space that is visually enchanting—at least until the play begins. The scrim stays in place for the duration of the play—I get it, Miss Julie is a bird in a gilded cage: groundbreaking—and the folds of the scrim obscure the actors anytime they are in front of them. I changed seats three times within my row in an attempt to get a clear view before giving up. From my final seat—the best angle I could find—Miss Julie’s face would still be hidden every time she sat in her chair. She might as well have been blurred out during a couple of her monologues.

This lack of attention to the actual viewing experience extends to Keith Parham’s lighting design as well. Strobing wall-of-lights aside—I presume there’s a seizure warning somewhere in the theatre—the lights within the set, angling up, are momentarily blinding when an actor moves out of their path, which is fairly often.

I mentioned Willow James’ abrasive, unpleasant score played at rave volume in the opening scene. What I didn’t mention was that it almost never dies down completely, supplying an irritating thrum of mechanical noise through most of the play.

All of this sensory assault, combined with some bizarre directorial choices from Gabrielle Randle-Bent, reaches its nadir in a frenetic sex scene that is as ill-conceived as it is unintentionally hilarious. Lights flash and music deafens as Miss Julie and Jean thrash about the kitchen table and then on the floor, literally knocking boots (and knocking boots over), while snorts and giggles erupted from audience members. Me, I had my hand firmly clasped over my mouth lest a guffaw escaped.

And spare a thought for the poor actors in this duel: of the two, Kevin Rolston Jr. as Jean fares slightly better, if only because he’s actually allowed to act for stretches and is very fine when he does, but Mi Kang doesn’t stand a chance: directed to contort, pose, and twitch as much as possible, her Miss Julie is more a collection of ideas and mannerisms than a person. Denied any opportunity at sustained connection, the actors fail to generate any chemistry. How could anyone? It’s hardly surprising that the best performance—indeed, the best moments in the play—all come from Rebecca Spence as Kristine (the cook and Jean’s fiancée); she plays her scenes with a focus that’s sorely missing from the rest of the production. After that bread-dough bit, she isn’t burdened by any fussy staging, and I sighed with relief every time she made an entrance.

Then there’s the denouement: the original script has an elegant, clever ending that gives Miss Julie the power to determine her ultimate fate, strongly insinuating her decision but still retaining sufficient ambiguity. It has provided fodder for innumerable post-play arguments. This production strips Miss Julie of that agency, outright states her intention, and then has her cede the final decision to Jean. A shocking moment of violence is so poorly directed that I wondered if a neophyte would even register what just happened on stage. Miss Julie and Jean’s final interaction is incoherent at best and, at worst, visually sets up a deeply offensive image that rankles even days later.

I am far from a purist. In fact, I delight in watching great works of the stage be reinvented and reimagined. But there needs to be a consistent logic and a point to that process. Strindberg’s plays are a cornerstone of naturalism, and of his oeuvre Miss Julie is arguably the best representative of that school of theatre. Walking away from Court, a line from the HBO show The Wire popped into my head:

“You come at the king, you best not miss.”

This one missed.

✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦

photos by Michael Brosilow

Miss Julie
Court Theatre, 5535 S. Ellis Ave.
Wed–Fri at 7:30; Sat & Sun at 2 & 7:30
ends on March 8, 2026
90 minutes, no intermission
for tickets ($60-$90), call 773.753.4472 or visit Court Theatre

for more shows, visit Theatre in Chicago

✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦